Let's write a story....

[allchopin]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie         s. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie         s. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie         s. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded

(Athykay, your software keeps removing the showgirls. How come it's leaving in the giant-phallic tortoises...)

[lenny]

lol i LOVE those giant-phallic tortoises!!!!! 

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie         s. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams

(Okay, I've rescued the showgirls once again and put cyber sitter out to pasture
  )

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets

[bernhard]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets staggered

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!" Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix.  Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets staggered haphazardly

[Ludwig Van Rachabji]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. 
Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets staggered haphazardly into

[allchopin]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. 
Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion?"

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion?"    Bring

[lenny]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion?"    Bring coital

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion?"    Bring coital rubbish

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion?"  Bring coincidental rubbish calmly

[Ludwig Van Rachabji]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions

[Hamfast]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions which

[bernhard]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions which alarmingly

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions which alarmingly
mutated

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions which alarmingly mutated into

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic

[Floristan]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets

[lenny]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of xecrapheobitalicationers with antidisestablihmentarianism

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee."

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor

[aquariuswb]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered!

[richard w]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At least

[athykay]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At least I

[cziffra]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At least I masticate

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At least I masticate quartzy

[allchopin]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! At least I masticate quartzy adjectives

[Brian Healey]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with

[aquariuswb]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

[athykay]

]
Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

Ouch

[lenny]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

Ouch, antidisestablishmentarianism

[xvimbi]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch" said

[lenny]

what? 

[aquariuswb]

Once, twice, thrice mathematically reproduced food precariously teetered almost silently atop an Undisclosed Time Infraction List. Glowing, ominously black mold started pulsating viciously underneath it.

"Thunderbolts," Fred said, "always remember to brush their cubed cheeses."

"BLASPHEMY," shouted Thor, raising both socks, way stinky though unmatched, on flagpoles skyhigh. Precariously perched, and yet obfuscated by raindrops, the wordsmith said, "Still, I scratch treebark until my appendix explodes."

"DOCTOR!! My pet drinks too! So truncate that chicken!", said Fred, even mounted swiftly atop Thor's winged chariot.

Unexpectedly, the appendix spewed forth climbing critters, spiralling through cactus walls like pretentious prudes who extract sugar from lemonpie showgirls. Then, without warning lights, Thor exfoliated his nose hairs, and defumigated, spontaneously combusting, leaving multiple craters!

The doctor pondered anti-clockwise whilst chewing grass popsicles because ice sculptures provided no nutritional information.

"This ibex's horns," the doctor remarked, "are notably qualified in soothing dysfunctional phalynxes trespassing beyond reasonable levels of semantics. Thus," he continued pontificating, "the notion obviates falconry, which saves the whales, ironically."

Thor, meanwhile took pride in hectoring many piglets posthumously, despite warnings orchestrated monotonously. The life rotated squarely fair, yet triangularly spiraled, because pigtails lifted unending moratoriums on sleepwalking tapsters, allowing labyrinthitis to take pre-historical proportions. Therefore, he dug luminously cheerful earthworms avenging nashipears nonwithstanding verbosity of pianophiles who painstakingly rationalized bingo-related accidents.

"Where did froglegs come from?" Fred blurted out. "Is polyunsaturated existentialism motivating me subliminally to commit myself to eating scissors? Could this chicken cacciatore walk backwards blindfolded? Does graphite taste soup? Am I asking too few ludicrous repartees? Investigate snails' rubbery snobbery, Slartibartfast!"

Then lubricated scissors penetrated the old woman's shoe. She gasped imperceptibly, yet  masculinely, and then frogleg-clones manufactured whirly-gigs. Erect and giant-phallic tortoises thrusted a guinea pig into a hairy labyrinth. Suddenly apocryphal rumours ricocheted stupidly, specifically sullying Thor's bearded appendix. Meanwhile, the food fight unfolded with streams of clams oozing spumoni into buckets, staggered haphazardly into oblivion.

"Oblivion? Bring coincidental rubbish calmly over and fumigate my bunions, which alarmingly mutated into microscopic, odiferous baskets of gelatinous coffee," Thor thundered! "At least I masticate quartzy adjectives with incisors!"

"Ouch," said Lenny! [BADA-BING!!!]